


of love and war.

by Christiiiiine



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Great Depression, M/M, No Smut, No Spoilers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sick Steve Rogers, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 02:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21402577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christiiiiine/pseuds/Christiiiiine
Summary: Steve was sick again.Bucky had known it was coming; Steve’s chest had been rattling with every breath for a few days now, and coughing fits happened more often than not. As winter hit Brooklyn, so did an overwhelming sense of dread.OR a pre-canon Stucky fic set in the Great Depression. Just two boys in love surrounded by a society of fear. Will update when I feel like it
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Kudos: 11





	of love and war.

**Author's Note:**

> I found a few recipes from the Great Depression, and we started studying World War Two in History, and it led to the gem that is this. Hope it brings you guys as much joy as it does me.  
Please, for the love of Thor, leave a comment, just one, small, teeny tiny comment. please. please--

December 14, 1938  


Steve was sick again.  


Bucky had known it was coming; Steve’s chest had been rattling with every breath for a few days now, and coughing fits happened more often than not. As winter hit Brooklyn, so did an overwhelming sense of dread. Bucky was still here, and so was Steve, but it was his biggest fear that he wouldn’t be for much longer. So every morning, right when he woke up, Bucky would feel Steve’s forehead, just to make sure that he was still there and that he wasn’t getting sick.  
It didn’t work this time.  


That day, Bucky could not, for the life of him, remember a time of which Steve’s fever was worse.  


Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, and willed it all to be over.  


_Stevie needs you,_ his brain said. _ If you let him die, you will no longer have a single reason to get out of bed in the morning._  
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, glancing down at Steve, who was whimpering in his sleep. He pushed the sweaty hair from Steve’s forehead.  
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, and sighed. “One day at a time.”  


Bucky dressed quickly, not bothering to comb his hair. He flew downstairs, the numbness of early morning fleeting as quickly as he moved.  
Their apartment didn’t have running water, but there was a tap in the alley behind it, free for the tenants' use. It was the best either of them could ask for, under the circumstances, but it didn’t help Bucky’s nerves. He tried to smile, and Steve tried to smile, and they had each other. As long as Bucky had Steve, he was able to convince himself that he was happy. And he might have been, if he didn’t constantly have to worry that Steve’s lungs were going to give out. But Bucky knew that he wouldn’t--no, he couldn’t--trade it for the world. All they had was each other, and Bucky was going to make damn sure that that was going to be the case for as long as the universe would allow, but from the way Steve’s health was deteriorating, he feared it wouldn’t be long.  


He shook his head. Thinking like that would make nothing better.  
Bucky grabbed a bucket and turned on the tap, rubbing his hands together to warm them. The frigid air stung his nose and cheeks, and he wondered if they had enough money to buy another blanket, but neither of them had had a good cup of coffee in months.  
The bucket was almost full now, and he still had to lug it up a flight of stairs. He turned off the tap and started back up to their apartment, being careful not to let it slosh about too much.  


Steve was awake by the time he got back, his skinny arms cradling his body as he shivered under the thin blanket. His pillow was soaked with sweat. Bucky dipped a small saucepan in the bucket and put some water on to boil, and soaked a spare piece of cloth in the cold water. He sauntered over to the bed, picking up Steve and draping him over his lap. He placed the cold cloth on Steve’s forehead and kissed his hair.  


“I’m sorry,” Steve croaked.  


“Hush,” Bucky told him. “You didn’t ask for this.”  


“Neither did you,” Steve argued.  


“I didn’t,” said Bucky, “But don’t think for a second I would ever trade it for anything, you punk.” A ghost of a smile appeared on Steve’s face, and Bucky’s heart swelled. He kissed Steve’s hair again. “Love you,” he told Steve, who nuzzled his nose into the sleeve of Bucky’s shirt. He switched on the radio, and sang softly to _My Buddy,_ one of his favorites. It was Steve’s favorite, too, and Bucky smiled down at him as he tried to hum the melody. The pot of water was boiling, so he displaced Steve from his lap and dunked the cloth back in the cool water, swiftly returning to the stove to finish the soup.  


The icebox was completely bare, spare for a bottle of ketchup and a single potato. He didn’t want to waste the starch if Steve couldn’t keep it down, and anyways ketchup soup had become a frequent meal for the two in the past few years or so. It was warm and had calories, not to mention the fact that it, at least, was not totally bland. He added a quarter of the bottle and stirred quietly, still humming to the radio.  


He spoon-fed Steve that day, keeping himself busy taking care of him. But as Steve slept off his fever, the fear and anxiety crept up from the pit of his stomach like a vine. _What if this was finally the winter that they didn’t make it through?_


End file.
